Sic Itur ad Astra
by hyperempathie
Summary: Firkle's birthday edges closer and closer as his friends inspect their own lives while attempting to scavenge for a gift. Pete finds a certain affinity towards the tallest member of their quartet.
1. Chapter 1

_But hey, this is the future_  
_ And we don't grow up like that_  
_ Oh we grow teeth and we grow nails_  
_ And we scratch to the bottle when we need_

_"Future Pt 1" - Voxtrot_

* * *

There was something about the smell of cinnamon that drove Pete up the wall and today was no exception. Still, Henrietta leaned over a stained glass with two sticks of incense inside that she'd been burning, the pungent smell was evident in the room, concealed only by the strong scent of their cigarettes. This was routine, chain smoking for a good hour until one of them had the audacity to tilt their head up and look around, squinting at the realization that the smoke had obscured the view of the entire room. Then it was up to Henrietta to crack the window open for a while.

Winter was unkind and Pete couldn't tell his breath against the cold from the exhale of smoke from his menthol cigarette. Still, he flicked some ash off onto the girl's floor, tipping his head back, but not before offering Michael a sideways glance. Noting he seemed deep in thought, Peter shifted his attention to the ceiling and sighed deeply.

"You know," Michael's monotone voice sounded, hoarse and quiet against the music playing in the background, some post-punk record Henrietta had dug out from her garage and said they _had_ to listen to, "it's Firkle's birthday in like a week," the boy in question was absent from the meet-up, probably having fallen asleep watching _Boy Meets World_ reruns, "what should we get him?" no matter how much they prided themselves on rejecting every social norm, the gesture of a thoughtful gift was too pleasant to resist.

Henrietta drummed her chubby fingers against her leg in contemplation, "what the fuck do you give a teenage boy for his 15th birthday? I mean," she looked up, brows furrowed, "pizza? Tickets to a Peter Murphy concert that we'd have to sell a kidney to afford?"

"Condoms?" Michael joked, though one wouldn't be able to tell had they not known him. Pete breathed an airy chuckle and Henrietta rolled her eyes.

"Let's just buy him books, I don't think he'd care," Pete deadpanned, moving his hand to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette before exhaling with a huff, "or make him something," the offer hung in the air and the room was dead silent save for the steady bass and the gentle crackle of the record player. Pete shut his eyes in concentration and wondered why his brain failed him whenever it was time to make a decision.

By the time midnight rolled around they narrowed the choices down to books and clothes. Michael joked dryly that they were reminding him of parents buying their child a Christmas present. Pete laughed a bit too hard and Henrietta gave him a knowing glance before ushering them outside.

"Don't crash your car," she yelled at Michael from the door, shivering at the cold air and waving a hand dismissively at the two silhouettes drifting away, obscured by the fog.

Having reached the vehicle, the two boys heard the door behind them slam shut and Pete dug his hands into his pockets as the taller boy did the same, searching for his car keys. Having finally dug them out, he shuffled over to the other side and listened to the satisfying sound of the locks clicking open. Peter slid inside and fiddled with the seatbelt, shaky hands clumsily handling the closure. He shut the door and listened to the deep bellow of the motor coming to life.

Noticing Michael hadn't bothered to turn the music on, Pete contemplated doing it himself, but resolved the dilemma by deciding he didn't care enough and shifted his gaze out the window, the blur of road and trees and the occasional house. It had practically become a tradition for them to drive around all the way to the outskirts of town prompted by the dispersion of their group when it was time to go home. The car passed by the church and stopped near the field of grass next to Stark's Pond before the motor shut off and Michael turned to face him.

"So," he began, sifting through his pockets before pulling out a box of cigarettes and tapping on the back, a habit Pete never quite understood. Michael had explained him to it before, but he hadn't bothered to listen, "wanna smoke until we can't see each other? Or does the freshly polluted air beckon?" he flicked his lighter on and brought it close to his face, the only light in the entire vehicle and it brought his beak-like nose and pale skin to attention before a puff of smoke replaced it, "your call," he breathed.

No matter how fond he'd been of sitting in a confined, stuffy place with the taller boy, Pete opted for oxygen, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door on his side, prompting Michael to do the same as he balanced the cigarette between his teeth. He slammed the door shut and took another drag, blowing out a string of rings that slowly disappeared into the cold, foggy air of midnight in South Park. Pete quickly dug his own cigarettes out of his front pocket and fiddled with an old BIC lighter he'd stolen from his dad. He sighed in content as the sticky, full feeling encompassed his lungs, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling with a sigh and watching the smoke fade away.

The few subdued lights around them that appeared to be the only ones their small town could afford dimly lit the area surrounding them, Pete could see the lake all the way up to the horizon and the reflection of the crescent moon in the water. The damp grass under them gave with each step, weak and wet from the snow that had recently melted. Pete thought about silent moments like that, when he could feel his own breathing and finally hear himself think, away from the noise of everyday life.

He looked at his companion and then back at the distance, narrowing his eyes and leaning his head up, shifting his attention to the stars scattered across the dark sky, bundles and bundles of them. And the air around them smelled like freshly cut grass and cigarette smoke. He was sure that moment was significant somehow, the silence obstructed only by the soft sound of crickets in the background and the occasional sigh, he felt content standing in the damp grass and smelling the cold, winter air. It was a rare break from the pressure of existing and he dug his purple winklepickers into the ground beneath them before kicking away some stray grass that had gathered on the pointed tip.

Unsure of when or how, but sure it had happened, Pete noted Michael initiating conversation. It drifted between topics, hasty and unfinished on both their accounts, though several topics clung. Peter mentioned he wanted a _'Sic itur ad astra'_ tattoo, Michael mentioned it would look hardcore. The talking subsided and Pete mulled over his thoughts, though he took himself finishing the last cigarette in the small box as a prompt to get back into the car. The taller boy followed.

That night, Pete sat up in bed and sent Henrietta a hasty text, jabbing his fingers against the screen as he squinted at the brightness.

_'Let's just hit some stores tomorrow, there's likely something Firkle would like buried somewhere in South Park. Or we could rob a mausoleum.'_

The youngest boy's infatuation with the post mortem was no secret, having kept a hefty collection of animal bones he'd found god knows where. Perfectly preserved and cleaned. None of the quartet was allowed to touch him but himself, and he did it with such care that one would think they'd turn to dust. Pete played with the idea of just buying him a bottle of formaldehyde. He fell back onto the soft mattress that creaked at the movement. The string of sleep gleefully tugged at his conscious and he let his eyes close shut before drifting away.


	2. Chapter 2

_These are my friends. This is who they have been for always. _  
_ These are my days. This is how they stay. Hey, hey. _  
_ These are my friends. This is who they remain forever. _  
_ This is how we stay. Hey, hey._

_"Yellow Cat (Slash) Red Cat" - Say Anything_**  
**

* * *

South Park, small as it may be, had a habit of being loud and active. This was not the case on Saturday mornings. Saturday mornings in South Park were silent and slow, and Pete woke up feeling more fatigued than usual, the sound of birds chirping outside his window accentuating the lack of any other sound. He was sure he was the only one awake. Sitting up, he slapped a hand over his face, muffling a groan as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled out of bed.

Contemplating the time, he reached for his phone and cringed at the bright screen, noting the glaring numbers before whispering, "7 fucking AM," as he opened a text from Henrietta, a response to last night's impulse.

'Sounds good. I told Michael. He says you were thinking about getting a tattoo? We can do that tomorrow, too. Whatever, I'm going to bed.'

Henrietta Biggle's manner of typing was not concise in the slightest and Pete shook his head at her evident ability to disclose more than he cared to know. He slowly recalled his thought process the night before, though at that moment the thought of getting inked in South Park on a Saturday made his stomach churn. He sighed before texting back.

'Sure. The two of you decide who's driving and pick me up at 11.'

It seemed reasonable enough, he praised himself on his planningskills, before he felt the first hint of a need for nicotine press into the pit of his stomach, his foot tapped softly on the wood floor and he thought about holding out until after he had his morning coffee.

The resolution faltered and Pete found himself holding a cigarette between his teeth as he carried a hot coffee mug through his hallway, hissing as some spilled onto his hand, dripping onto the carpet. He reached a hand out to open the door of his room and frowned as he placed the cup down onto a miscellaneous textbook and took a quick drag before pinching the cigarette between his fingers and clumsily placing it in a nearby ashtray. He looked at his cluttered desk, all textbooks and sketches he'd never finish, before plopping down onto his computer chair and tipping his head back, the pressure forming in his sinuses left him with a floating sensation. Extending his arm out, he plucked the cigarette from his ashtray and took a deep drag, accentuating it by clearing his throat as he exhaled through his nose.

Through the window, the first rays of the morning sun peeked through, washing over the carpet, the settling dust visible against the light. Pete stood up promptly after finishing his coffee and squinted an eye at the sun as he looked himself over in the mirror, clad in a pair of gray and black pajama bottoms and a Bauhaus shirt.

"Nice," he whispered to himself, reaching a hand up to scratch at his side as he yawned.

Figuring it best he got dressed, Pete shuffled around his room, sifting through clothing merged into one pile of black. He studied each garment individually before settling for something that bore semblance of an outfit, sighing in exasperation as he realized it would take him ages to find the pentacle necklace he'd gotten at some thrift shop outside of town. However small and insignificant, he felt naked without it. Amulets came to mind, though he shook the thought away, eyes widening as he noticed the object in question. Shaky fingers fidgeted with the clasp before he huffed and straightened his posture. All in all, the process of getting ready took about twenty minutes and it was around 11AM by the time he was done.

Patience was not a virtue Pete had and he shifted in place as he waited for his phone to vibrate. Instead, he was startled by a loud honk from the street. He peeked out the window and, sure enough, Henrietta's mum's obnoxiously blue car was placed dead center on the street, the horn honking diligently. Pete imagined the discussion taking place inside the vehicle, idle chitchat about why he wasn't ready yet as he shuffled down the stairs and out the door, towards the car in question.

Upon noticing him, Henrietta relaxed significantly. Michael was on the passenger's side, leaving Pete to enjoy the roomy back, accentuated by the lack of the fourth member of their party. He leaned back and sighed a greeting, wrapping his arms around his torso for warmth as looked off into space. Space being Michael's unruly hair and Pete found himself staring before he averted his gaze to the street, trying not to pay any mind as to how peculiar his own actions felt. He felt the car's heating system warm up the inside of the vehicle and let his arms go slack, watching the snow fall outside.

Pete heard Michael shifting around in his seat and he peeked at what he was doing and, upon noticing the other tapping the back of a pack of cigarettes, he extended his arm out. No further elaboration was needed and the taller of the two placed a cigarette in his hand, nodding at the 'Thanks' that was mumbled as Pete leaned back and brought it to his lips.

He held the filter between his teeth as he dug around his pockets, pulling out a lighter and checking its functionality. Trying to align the tip with the flame, he narrowed his eyes before inhaling sharply. He tipped his head back and shut his eyes, enjoying the relief that encompassed his bones at that initial drag. He heard Henrietta turn the music up and he let Siouxsie Sioux's vocals feel for him.

The car slowed to a halt outside the large shopping centre, pulling Pete from his thoughts, he scanned the building up and down before exiting the vehicle, shivering as the cold air hit him. He dug his hands into his pockets and watched as Henrietta Biggle locked the doors and stuffed the key into the pocket of her winter jacket. He considered saying something about how shitty malls are and how they're run by corporate douche-bag conformists, but decided against it. The silence made him uncomfortable, however.

"Well," the tallest of the three droned, "I guess it's time to initiate the joys of consumerism," he let the butt of his cigarette drop to the ground, the snow putting it out, before continuing, "what do you wanna do first?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Hidden in the dashboard _  
_The unseen mechanized eye _  
_Under surveillance _  
_The road is full of cats eyes _  
_It's sick function to pry _  
_The spy in the cab _

_"Spy in the Cab" - Bauhaus_

* * *

"Let's look for Firkle's present," Henrietta chimed, "we can watch Pete get poked with a needle later," and the triad shuffled inside the building, cringing at the bright lights. Pete grimaced at the assault of pop music on his ears before looking up at one of the speakers incredulously.

"Can one die via speakers blaring this year's hits?" Pete asked, frowning at the repetitive tune emphasized by the acoustic of the large building, "or are the consequences just severe brain damage?"

"_Pete died from a severe aneurysm caused by the vocals of Ariana Grande_," Michael announced before observing the abundance of stores, "My IQ is dropping just by being here, the fuck are we supposed to go?"

After a few minutes of consultation as to which of the stores were worth visiting, they made their way up the escalator. Pete was quite wary of escalators and he held onto the railing with a strong grip, hearing the pads of his fingers squeak against the glass. He brought a hand up to move the hair from his eyes as he sighed in an attempt to conceal the uneasy feeling pooling in his stomach, he didn't want his friends to see him fidget. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Michael's gaze shift towards him for a split second. The menial gesture somehow seemed important. When they reached the next floor, Pete clumsily stepped off the conveyor system. In his mind, it felt like he was still moving and it took a bit of effort to walk without stumbling the first few steps.

"Let's get him a scarf," Henrietta Biggle suggested, cracking her knuckles before gesturing towards one of the many clothing stores, "maybe this year he won't catch the flu," and upon seeing no protest, she made her way towards the shop in question. Michael and Pete followed. Their group seemed ill fitting in contrast to the bright, lurid atmosphere of the mall itself. They each paced to separate sides of the store, observing the clothing racks and shelves. Occasionally, one would pull a garment out, look it over a couple of times and put it back in its previous spot. This went on for a good ten minutes before Michael gestured for the others to make their way over.

The three of them gathered around a small shelf, eyeing a stack of winter scarves placed conveniently next to a disorganized bundle of gloves. Near the bottom of the stack, they all could see a piece of black fabric sticking out and Pete reached a hand out to tug at it gently, sliding out the scarf while his other hand darted to hold the rest of them in place. Henrietta and Michael observed in silence.

"How about this," Pete held it up, "or are we too broke?"

The rectangular fabric was lined with purple tassels and Pete folded it over as his friends looked at the price tag on the side of the shelf. Henrietta sighed in relief as she dug out her wallet and sifted through it, grabbing a few crumpled bills before the three of them shuffled towards the cashier.

Pete swung the scarf onto the counter as the girl placed the money next to it, neither of them saying a word. Pete concealed a scoff at the look they received. The cashier scanned the article before stuffing it into a plastic bag with a pretentious logo on it and accepting the money.

The walk out of the store was relieving.

"Ready to get inked Pete?" the tallest of the three offered, leaning against a nearby railing, "or are you wary of the unsanitary conditions of South Park Mall?"

"Can we do it some other time?" he curled into himself slightly, hoping it wouldn't come off as if he was backing out, "I'm not really feeling the whole multiple puncture wounds thing right now."

"I'm gonna find a bathroom," Henrietta mumbled and, upon the nod of approval from her friends, she walked towards the other side of the building, her wedge boots tapping against the laminate floor.

The shorter boy walked over to where his friend was standing and sighed, staring off into the distance. The silence was heavy and he berated himself for not saying anything profound. _Fucking say something_, he thought, _anything_.

"Malls suck," he commented, "this freaking music is giving me a headache," and he reached a hand up to shift the hair from his face and rub one of his eyes.

"I feel like we should have done more," Michael responded, "like, I don't know, we made a huge deal out of it, kinda, I guess it was anticlimactic," he elaborated.

"We should have gotten him an exotic animal," the other joked, reveling at the pseudo-laugh he received from Michael.

"Hey," he began, "wanna watch a movie at my place tomorrow with Firkle and Henrietta?"

Pete mulled over it for a second before replying: "Sure. What movie?"

"Well we can either watch Beetlejuice for the thousandth time, or Heathers for the millionth."

"Or both," Pete contemplated, "when?"

"Around 10PM. Firkle has his shitty curfew, he has to be home by midnight," he explained, before hastily adding, "don't worry about the tattoo thing. It's whatever."

Pete nodded and mumbled a 'yeah' as he averted his gaze towards the ground.

The exchange was interrupted by their third companion returning from the restroom and she cracked her knuckles as she complained about how awful public bathrooms were. Pete tuned out between the groan of "They have speakers in there," and "The soap smells like potpourri," his mind drifting. By the time they got to the escalator, his friends' voices were a white noise and he shook any invasive thoughts away, trying to focus.

He barely noticed the walk to the car, though the sound of Henrietta slamming the door shut awoke him from his thoughts and drew his attention to the fact that Michael was sitting in the back with him. Henrietta announced something about the bag having to be in the passenger's seat and Michael rolled his eyes, digging out a cigarette and surrendering to his fate. The smoke engulfed the entire vehicle before Henrietta remembered to crack the window on her side open, a breeze rolling through the interior and making Pete shiver. He curled into himself and cursed under his breath.

The taller of the two raised his gaze to meet Pete's before holding out the burning cigarette. Pete found himself minding the cold less and less and he grabbed it before mumbling a thanks and bringing it to his lips. A cough wracked his body and he shut his eyes, the tightening in his chest making tears appear in the corner of his eyes. He clenched his fist and bumped it against his chest a few times as he breathed out profanity.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he breathed, clearing his throat a few times before passing the cigarette back. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed deeply, "lungs fucking suck."

Michael humored the statement with an understanding nod and Pete watched as he shifted his attention to the girl in the front seat, requesting she make use of the car stereo. The ride back seemed to go on forever and Pete found himself staring out the window and slowly tuning out again, though he perked up upon noticing the familiar buildings near his home. He thought about how, even though life sucked, it sucked even more from inside a blue sedan with floral print seats.

The car in question stopped outside his house and he opened the car door, stopping momentarily as he felt Michael's knee bump against his. It felt significant somehow. He shook the thought away and stepped out into the cold air, waving a goodbye to his friends. He walked to his front door and dug through his pockets in search of the house key. Upon fishing it out, he praised himself and made his way inside, kicking his shoes off and running up the stairs into his bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

_We found you hiding, we found you lying_  
_Choking on the dirt and sand_  
_Your former glories and all the stories_  
_Dragged and washed with eager hands_

_"Cities in Dust" - Siouxsie and the Banshees_

* * *

The following day went by rather quickly and by 9PM, Pete found himself shuffling around his room, looking for some decent clothes to wear. He sighed at the realization that some of his favorite shirts were in the wash before settling on wearing a Joy Division T-shirt Michael had gotten him for his birthday a couple of years prior. He checked his phone as he slipped his shoes on and walked towards the door. The cold air bit into his skin and he adjusted his scarf and winter coat before hugging his torso as he trudged through the winter snow.

Michael's house seemed miles away and he sighed in relief as he saw the first silhouette of it in the distance, barely visible through the setting fog. When he got to the door, he resisted head butting the doorbell and instead he reached a hand out, cursing under his breath as his fingers had almost gone numb. He tried replicating the tune of _Nerves_, though he saw the lights turn on inside before he was finished.

The door opened to reveal Michael's gangly frame. He gave a greeting and invited Pete inside. The other shuffled through the door and let his arms fall slack at the warm temperature, a contrast to the snow and wind outside. He took off his shoes before hanging his coat and scarf on the hanger in the hallway. Michael had already gone upstairs, so he followed. The stairs creaked under his feet and he quickly made his way into the taller boy's bedroom.

Firkle and Michael were both sitting on the floor, the prior hugging his knees to his chest and playing with the lighter in his hand as the latter was hunched over a glass with three sticks of incense. Siouxsie and the Banshees played in the background and Pete sat down on the floor next to their younger companion. The atmosphere was comforting, Pete always found himself growing more relaxed when he was around his friends.

"Nice shirt, Pete," Michael joked, to which Pete gave a half-laugh. He stood up straight and placed the incense on the bedside table. The muffled ring of the doorbell resonated through the house and prompted Michael to mumble a, "be right back," as he walked downstairs to greet their last guest.

Pete tapped his fingers against the carpet as Firkle raised his gaze to meet his.

"What did you get me?" the smaller boy deadpanned, setting his lighter aside.

"It's a secret, _gosse_," he retaliated, amused at the frown Firkle gave at his response.

"Come on-" though he was cut off by the sound of the door opening. They both raised their gazes up to meet Henrietta's, who held a bottle of wine in her hand and plopped down on the floor beside them.

"Sorry, I had to see some shitty math tutor," she said, running her chubby fingers through her black dyed hair before giving Pete a knowing glance, "nice shirt," to which Pete felt his ears heat up as he gave her a half-hearted glare. Michael quickly put on The Heathers and joined them on the floor, plucking one of the bottles from Henrietta's hands and opening it.

"Is this vegan?" he asked, though he brought the bottle closer to his lips without waiting for an answer.

"Duh," Henrietta said, "pass it here when you're done."

The bottle survived a few circles between the hands of all four of them before it was almost empty, and the movie was almost finished. Michael swished the remaining liquid around before passing it to Pete, who fumbled with the cap before tipping the bottle back, resting his other hand behind himself so he wouldn't fall over. He stared at the empty bottle for a second before placing it on the floor. Firkle reached a hand out towards it and gave a weak sound of protest when Michael stopped him.

"Your curfew's in like 20 minutes," he said.

"I have to go, too, my aunt is over for a few days and so my mum wants us all to pretend we're well-adjusted," Henrietta announced, getting up and adjusting her dress before offering a hand to the smaller boy, who hesitantly took it.

"I should go, too," Pete said as he stumbled to his feet. Michael stood up as the credits rolled and escorted them all out. The cold air felt even worse, Pete swore, through the translucent film of alcohol clouding his mind. The trip home felt shorter, though, and Pete found himself face-planting the bed and letting out a sigh.

His room felt hot, though he couldn't be bothered to move.

He'd been laying there for god knows how long before the phone on his bed buzzed to life as the screen lit up and the familiar drone of _'Death and despair'_ commenced. Pete sighed and shifted to his side before staring at it for a second, the caller ID making him nervous, though he wasn't sure why. Hastily, he grabbed the phone and answered.

"Pete, it's Michael," and the boy shifted onto his back, wondering why Michael always felt the need to clarify it was him, "I can't sleep."

Words felt labored and Pete berated himself over not knowing what to say, barely managing a: "Yeah?" and praying silently Michael would just keep talking. His mouth felt numb from the alcohol, the taste of wine clung to the back of his throat.

"Yeah," he repeated, "there's nothing on TV and I spent the last 30 minutes reading Buddhist literature. If I read another paragraph about reincarnation through a metaphor about mountains I'll find a way to kill myself via paperback."

"Wild night, huh?" Pete breathed, "do you at least feel a connection with the universe?" and he twirled a stray strand of hair between his fingers.

"Not really," he could hear Michael shifting as he spoke, "I feel a deeper connection with the universe when I listen to a Joy Division record."

Pete let out a breathy chuckle before speaking: "I'm pretty sure my company doesn't hold up to that of the late Ian Curtis."

"I think you surpass the expectations," Pete could hear Michael smiling and he shut his eyes and sighed, "stay up with me," it wasn't really a question so Pete didn't provide an answer. Still, he could hear Michael's tone, he didn't sound like himself.

"What's up?" he asked, sparing a glance at the laptop on his desk as he considered playing some music. He wasn't even sure if Michael would hear it. Still, he sat up and put on The Cure as Michael spoke.

"I don't know, it's just- is that music?" he cut himself off and Pete straightened his posture.

"Yeah, sorry. I can still hear you," and he ran a hand through his hair before leaning back again.

"Whatever. Anyway, I've just been thinking. About us," and Pete raised an eyebrow, "and how time passes and shit. I mean, I remember when we were 15 and Firkle was 11. And we'd sneak out to go to gigs and..."

"We still do that," Pete tried to assure him, "we drove to Denver at 2AM last week."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, birthdays always make me feel weird, like we're getting old. I mean, we're 18, but still," and Pete nodded before realizing Michael couldn't see him.

"That's okay," Pete's chest felt tight, he felt his heartbeat accelerate whenever Michael spoke. He changed the song before continuing, "I mean, I get it," and he tipped his head back, "just don't think about it too much," he let the bass line feel for him.

"Can you turn that up?" Michael asked. Pete complied and he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke, and soon Pete felt the familiar haze of sleepiness overwhelm him. Thoughts of hanging up were suppressed by how heavy his eyelids felt. Michael's voice brought him back to a state of consciousness, "I think I'm going to try and sleep," his voice was raspy and barely audible.

"Oh, okay. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," and he hung up.

Just like that, Pete was back to being alone. Alone with his thoughts, free to mull over them for as long as he wished. He sighed and placed his phone on the nightstand before turning around and pulling a blanket over himself, shielding himself from having to think. The exchange between Michael and himself was still on his mind, but his bones felt heavy and sleep seemed like a good idea.


	5. Chapter 5

_I can't scream, _  
_ No, I can't scream for you_  
_ Mother and father, you're wrestling me_  
_ And boys like me, we like violence under pressure_

_"Lux" - Ramesh_

* * *

Pete awoke the next day, plagued by a headache and limbs too heavy to move. He sighed and clasped a hand over his eyes, rubbing off the remains of yesterday's makeup before stumbling to his feet and walking to his bathroom. The mirror was the enemy. He stared himself down, trying to make sense of his features in a sleepy daze and he raised an eyebrow at a trail of eyeliner that ran down his cheek and ended at his jaw-line. He stepped into the shower and tried his best to will himself to drown.

The too-warm water made him hiss and he shut his eyes tightly as he shampooed his hair, the water slightly tinting with red as a consequence of him having dyed his hair a few days prior. Pete was a fan of long, hot showers that he could drown all his self-pity in. It never worked, but it didn't hurt to dream. He stepped out and wrapped one towel around his waist before using another to dry his hair. The fog on the mirror relieved him from having to stare at his reflection.

When he entered his room, he noticed his phone's screen light up and he reached for it, shivering as the cold air hit his wet skin. He cursed under his breath and opened the text message.

_'Come over in an hour?'_

It was from Michael. He considered his reply as he sighed, before finding his interest piqued at the idea, though he wasn't sure why. Fingers jabbed clumsily against the keys as he wrote a quick reply, signifying he'd be there. He heard thunder roll outside and peeked outside, frowning as the rain started to fall. The ground would be slippery by the time he left, no doubt. Liberally, he made himself a cup of coffee after getting dressed and curled into himself as he held the mug with two hands. Upon finishing it, he stood up and stuffed his phone into his front pocket before grabbing his keys and walking down the stairs. He slipped his shoes and coat on and walked outside, trying not to slip.

The walk to Michael's house was agonizing, emphasized by the slow steps he took in an attempt not to fall. He pulled his hood over his head and dug his hands into his pockets, biting his lip at the cold air. By the time he got there, his hair was completely wet and he pressed on the doorbell and shifted in place, waiting.

Michael opened the door and quickly ushered Pete inside, instructing him to take his shoes off and hurry upstairs. He walked into Michael's room, the warm air a stark contrast to the low temperature outside. He cracked his knuckles and sat on the bed, waiting for the taller boy to come in. When he did, Pete dragged his gaze up from Michael's grey socks, up his body to the final curl atop his head. It felt like he'd never actually gotten a good look at his friend before. He was all dark fabric wrapped snug around sharp angles, even his smudged eyeliner looked precise. He took a seat next to the other and sighed. Pete slowly shifted his gaze to meet his eyes, dark and sunken and so focused.

"Pete," Michael began, his low drone making the hairs on the back of Pete's neck stand up, "I want _you_," he emphasized as Pete raised an eyebrow, "to cut my hair," and finally, he pointed his index finger at the mane in question. Noticing the shorter boy's hesitation, he shifted in his seat before announcing, "I'll take you to get your tattoo tomorrow."

"Alright."

"Wait, really?"

"Sure," he breathed, cracking his knuckles.

"Okay, just," Michael said, "let me get you some scissors and set some newspaper down," he stood up, "wait right here," and disappeared out the door, leaving Pete to sit alone and further inspect his surroundings.

He noted the mess of books scattered across a desk that sat on the other side of the room, the way the corners were chipped with age. Averting his gaze, Pete saw a pile of black fabric on the floor, presumably laundry that Michael hadn't gotten to putting in the hamper. He felt privileged in that he was exposed to a messier state of being, and when Michael walked back in, he quickly shook the thoughts away.

In his hands, the tall boy held a stack of newspapers and a pair of scissors, the latter of which rather intimidated Pete. Having never cut anyone's hair before except his own, he felt the fear of failure creep up in the back of his mind. He didn't notice he'd been staring until Michael cleared his throat, leaving the other to raise his eyebrows and look up. The scissors were now directly in front of his face, and he quickly grabbed them and stood up as Michael spread sheets of the newspaper on the floor. He placed the chair that stood near his desk in the middle before turning a lamp on and sitting down. Pete stepped forward and stood above Michael's frame as the other tipped his head back.

The light was comfortably dulled and emphasized the other boy's features, his beak-like nose and sunken eyes, the slight contour of his cheekbones. Hesitantly, he ran a hand through the taller boy's hair, noticing the way the dense strands curled as he ran his fingers through them. He lifted the scissors and began cutting away, tentative and shaky. The sound of snipping was all that could be heard, save for his and Michael's breathing and the occasional sound of the house settling. He watched as strands of hair fell down and pooled at his feet, once in a while opting to run his hands through the taller boy's hair. Reaching across to the desk, he placed the scissors down and went back to brushing the thick curls with his fingers.

Perhaps it was purely self-indulgent, he thought, the pads of his fingers settling against the roots. Michael arched a brow at this, though he didn't move, allowing Pete to gently press against his scalp. Silence engulfed the room and he noticed Michael's eyes were closed. He dragged his hands along to the back of his head, right above his neck and rubbed gently before moving back up. Squinting a bit, he swiped his finger under Michael's eye gently, fixing an out of place smudge from his eyeliner. The skin under the boy's eyes was thin and dark, the consequence of an irregular sleeping schedule, though it worked in his favor.

Dark circles were totally goth, Pete thought to himself, brushing Michael's hair through with his fingers one last time and cracking his knuckles to signify he was done. The taller of the two slowly opened his eyes and mouthed his thanks, the silence was deafening.

"Do you wanna see it?" Pete Grey always felt awkward speaking, like his phrasing was off or he stammered too much. This was no exception and he tentatively watched Michael register the question.

"Not really. I trust you," and with that he shifted his posture and reached inside his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and tapping the back before pulling one out.

Pete sat down cross-legged on the bed, his eyes set on Michael's hands as his mind wandered. The other, however, noticed his staring and arched a brow before offering the cigarette in his hand. Blinking, Pete eyed the object before slowly reaching a hand out and taking it. The first drag after a few hours was always his favorite and he closed his eyes as he felt the gentle ache in the back of his throat. For that split second, it felt like he was floating. He opened his eyes and passed it back to Michael.

There was something intimate about the way their knuckles brushed against each other, or maybe he was reading too deep into things. The entire ordeal somehow felt significant, though Pete always felt his worst while thinking. The soft light of the lamp flickered as he tried to drive the thoughts away.


End file.
